


Girl, You're Like a Weird Vacation

by leupagus



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: F/M, Genderswitch, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-10
Updated: 2010-04-10
Packaged: 2017-10-08 20:43:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/79348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leupagus/pseuds/leupagus





	1. Chapter 1

It takes a lot of persuading to get "Spock" and "shore leave" to interact on any meaningful level.

"I am unclear as to why you wish me to participate in your, as Dr. McCoy puts it, 'whoremongering' while on Risa," she says, not even doing Jim the favor of looking away from her console.

Jim makes a kind of strangled noise. Bones is such an asshole. "First of all, it's not whoremongering, it's more like--"

"Also, it is irresponsible to have the commanding officer, the second in command, the chief medical officer, and the chief communications officer all absent from the ship simultaneously," she says smoothly. "There are numerous regulations, in fact, that prohibit such action."

"Come on," Jim says, trying not to think about how he's the Captain of the _USS Enterprise_ and he's getting very close to whiny, "Uhura might need a cockblocker. You'd be great, you could just do your pinchy thing. Or... glare at them. Like... you're doing right now. It's pretty effective."

Uhura, who is sitting right next to Spock and who is laughing at him, clears her throat and says, "I promise it'll be fun," she says to Spock.

"See? Fun." Jim rocks back on his heels.

Spock raises an eyebrow and he knows she's about to remind him for the seven billionth time about how Vulcans do not indulge in fun.

"I'll even loan you something to wear," Uhura adds.

"Oh God," Jim croaks, images of _Enterprise_ Barbie running through his head. "I mean, oh good. Good. So you'll come?"

Spock frowns. "Captain, can you guarantee me that we will not visit any tattoo parlors while planetside? I have heard several reports of something called a 'tramp stamp,' often obtained during one's first official shore leave and I confess the idea does not appeal."

"Oh God," Jim says again, as the idea of Spock and Uhura giggling while half-naked and trying on clothes is overwritten by the idea of Spock, stretched out on her stomach, a picture of a butterfly high on one bare shoulder. His only comfort is that she wouldn't go for a butterfly -- she'd probably put in a schematic of an engine nacelle or something. Which, he's not going to lie, would be even more devastatingly hot.

He shakes himself out of it and pastes a smile on his face. "Cross my heart and hope to die."

Spock looks alarmed, "Captain, that is--

"It's an expression, Spock."

*

Bones insists that they swing by Uhura's quarters to pick up Uhura and Spock, partly because he's a Southern gentleman but mostly because he wants to see Spock in a dress as soon as possible.

"You're a bad person," Jim observes, as Bones hits the doorchime.

"I'm a bad person who gets to see Spock's legs," Bones says. "I'll live with myself."

The door slides open; Uhura is standing in the doorway, wearing a truly amazing, bright red silk dress. Jim blinks. "Okay then."

She smiles. She has some complicated-looking heels on that give her an extra four or five inches; she still isn't quite at his height, but it's a little odd to see her like this. There is something slightly dangerous -- slightly _more_ dangerous -- about her now.

"You two are like prom dates," she says, and steps aside. "Although it's a good thing you're here. Spock won't come out of the bathroom."

Jim frowns. "Did she hurt herself?"

Uhura rolls her eyes. "In a manner of speaking. Could you--?" and she waves toward the bathroom.

Jim follows her direction, and hears Bones say, "So the dress-up part of the evening, how did that go?"

"Doctor, don't make me stomp on you with my high heels."

Jim knocks on the bathroom door. "Spock? You, uh. You OK?"

"I am very well, Captain. I believe I will not be joining you after all, however."

"Really." Jim glances over his shoulder; Uhura and Bones are fussing over some bracelet that Uhura is trying to put on. "Spock," he says, a little lower, "Everything all right?"

"I am merely -- taken aback by my current appearance."

Jim blinks. It's kind of surprising to think that Spock suffers from lack of self-confidence. "Spock, it's fine. Uhura's clothes probably wouldn't look that good on me either, so." He clears his throat. "I mean, we don't care what you look like. Not that we don't think you look great. Or would. If you'd open the door."

"Thank you, Captain. However--"

"Spock, just open the door."

"I am simply--"

"Oh for the love of fuck," Jim snaps, and punches in the override code.

Spock is sitting perfectly still on the closed toilet seat, her hands clutching at the lapels of Uhura's pink bathrobe. She looks up at him.

"Um." Jim tries to remember other things that he wanted to say, but most of his brain is busy doing other stuff.

Spock never wears makeup ("I have no need to make myself sexually alluring to anyone, Captain, as I have no interest in marriage at this time. Also, Sulu and Scotty have both assured me that I am quite bangable as it is," which of course resulted in a lot of latrine duty for Sulu and Scotty, not that Jim has a problem or anything.) But Uhura -- and it must have been Uhura -- thickened the black line of her eyelashes, brushed soft strokes of rose along her cheekbones, put a dark red stain on her lips. When Spock is displeased or uncertain or angry, her mouth tightens and purses. It's adorable, usually.

Right now it's incitement to riot.

Her hair is still pulled back and pulled up; it would take more than shore leave to get that to change. But instead of straight bangs along her forehead, there are curled tendrils on either side of her face, like a renaissance muse. She looks strange in the harsh light of a starship bathroom, out of place.

All things considered, Jim is kind of glad that Spock's wearing a bathrobe. The dress is probably going to make him stroke out.

"Hi," he says, belatedly, realizing that he's been staring at his first officer for about thirty seconds. "So, you look OK to me."

Spock lifts an eyebrow -- god, even that's hotter now, Jim is going to hell -- and says, "Thank you, Captain. However I do not believe a dressing gown would be appropriate attire for the evening."

"Then take it off," Uhura says from behind Jim, "And let's go. Your dress is great, and Jim didn't laugh at your makeup, so--"

"Wait, you thought I'd _laugh_ at you?" Jim says.

Spock stands up, knuckles still white where they grip the lapels of the robe. "You often find me humorous," she points out.

"She's got a point," Bones says. "Come on, Commander, let's beat feet."

Spock doesn't get nervous, but she does get tense; Jim has a feeling that if he taps her right now she'll vibrate like a tuning fork. "Very well," she says, and pulls off the robe.

Bones whistles. "You clean up nice, Commander. All right, Uhura, you got a comm?" and he and Uhura wander toward the exit.

Jim knows he should follow, but he can't seem to move. "You look--"

The dress is a dark blue, almost black. It has thin straps holding it up, although it's so tight in the bodice that it looks almost sprayed on -- Jim notices, a little hysterically, that Vulcans react to cold the same way humans do -- before flaring out over her hips, soft folds stopping at mid-thigh, showing slightly more leg than the standard female dress uniform that Spock refuses to wear.

"Uhura said this would be acceptable," she says, and it isn't a question but it _feels_ like a question, and Jim nods.

"Yes, yeah, it's acceptable. It's great. So, you should probably bring a jacket or a coat or something so you don't get cold, I know how you get uncomfortable even when it's like a million degrees for us, so, um, do you have something like that?" He's just noticed that Uhura dusted her with goddamn body glitter, and this is the worst idea he's ever had.

Spock doesn't, but Uhura does, a kind of wrap/coat thing that covers more than the dress does, although it still lets people see Spock's face and some of her leg and Jim is not going to think about how fucking unacceptable that is.

They make their way to the transporter room, Spock walking silently beside him while Bones and Uhura are still chattering away about something or other, and one of these days Jim's going to have to get around to asking Bones if they are in fact doing it or if they're just becoming BFFs, but not now, because right now he's kind of preoccupied walking down the hallway and not glaring at every ensign and engineer who stops to gape at Spock.

Jim took the Leadership Dynamics course at the Academy, and he knows that in order to exploit your strengths you have to embrace your weaknesses or whatever, so he's fully aware that he's selfish and arrogant and doesn't treat his friends very well. But this feels like something more than just being possessive, than being worried that someone's going to make Spock uncomfortable. This feels like something that's very quickly going to get out of hand.

They climb up on the transporter pad and he reflects morosely that he is definitely, definitely going to get into a fight tonight.

*

The place they go to is loud and crowded and mostly nonhuman, which makes Spock relax just the tiniest bit, although she keeps her cloak on as they all slide into a booth by the dance floor. Jim has absolutely no problem with that.

Bones disappears to get drinks and Uhura disappears onto the dance floor. Jim sits next to Spock and tries to act normal, which of course means he starts acting like a douche.

"So you know if you spin around on the dance floor in that dress," he says -- yells, really -- over the noise, "People are totally going to see your underwear, right?"

Spock opens her mouth to answer when a -- person, who knows what gender or species -- comes up to the table. "I would like to dance with you," it trills, eyestalks wobbling slightly.

Jim can feel his hands bunching into fists, but Spock just blinks, looking surprised. "Very well," she says, and without further fucking ado she strips off her cloack thing like she's not half-naked in front of half the crew and a hundred strangers and proceeds to follow Eyestalk Guy out onto the dance floor.

Bones comes back a few minutes later to find Jim staring at the dance floor through his fingers and wondering how this became his life.

"She's dancing with a snail," he tells Bones, taking a deep drink of whatever it was Bones got him. It tastes like pineapple-flavored fire.

"Bet those kids'll be attractive," Bones says, sprawling out on the booth. "And what are you doing sitting here, anyway? I thought we were whoremongering."

Jim glares at him. "I hate you a lot. You know that, right?"

Bones just grins. "Oh look, there's Uhura. Excuse me, Captain." And he slides out of the booth and into the crowd, where Uhura is dancing along with about a dozen other people. Jim watches them for a few seconds, but his eyes are drawn back to Spock and whatever she's dancing with.

He expected -- when he'd allowed himself to think about it, which wasn't often, because if you're daydreaming on the bridge it's really bad form to get an erection -- that Spock would be an awkward dancer, that she wouldn't quite know where to put her hands or how to move her hips. He would've imagined -- not that he did -- that she would be grateful when he took hold of her hips, pulled her close to show her how to move, that she would settle her fretting hands on his shoulders, at the back of his neck, that she would look up at him with something like relief that he had taken charge.

But the reality is a lot worse, because Jim's only seen dancing like that in Orion porn films, and even that wasn't in four-inch high heels. Spock moves with a sinuous grace that proves what Jim's suspected all along, that the stiffness in her body was really just stillness, a potentiality. Eyestalk Guy seems to be enjoying itself, but it's not touching Spock, which is both a good thing and a bad thing -- good, because then Jim doesn't have to rip its head off, and bad, because Jim doesn't get to rip its head off.

There are a few other people around her starting to take an interest, though, and Jim stands up without really thinking about it. Spock catches sight of him as he gets close. She twists around to face him, and Eyestalk Guy mercifully melts away -- although to be honest, it's more like Jim stops being aware of anything else.

"Hi," he says, and he can feel a crazy grin spreading on his face, because Spock is in a _dress_ and _dancing_ and the universe is _perfect_ right now.

Except smiling was the wrong thing to do, because Spock suddenly stops, jarring against the writhing bodies around her. "I was given to understand that you did not find this amusing," she says.

"Oh, trust me," he says, and steps closer, "I don't find this funny at all."

She watches him, not moving, as he places one hand very, very carefully on her hip, his thumb stroking the soft fabric of her dress. It's a little like silk, but thicker and softer, and it drags against his fingers. He keeps his eyes focused on his hand, and she begins to move again, slower this time. The music's changed to something with lyrics, although they're not in a language he recognizes; the beat is a pulse instead of a drum, something he can feel in his throat. He slides his other hand up her back, sucking in a deep breath when he realizes -- fuck, how had he missed this -- how low-cut it is, the fabric barely covering the the swell of her ass. Her skin is hot, burning, and he looks up into her face almost by accident.

Her eyes are closed and her mouth is open. Vulcans don't sweat, or at least they don't usually, but the glitter on her skin and deep breaths she's taking makes her look like she's run ten miles, like she's been in a sauna, like she's been fucked for hours on somebody's bed.

His palm flattens against her lower back, right where the dress doesn't cover, and he presses, ever so slightly, because if he doesn't get closer to her he's going to die right here on the floor and Spock will have to explain how she killed him, which will probably be really embarrassing and lead to lots of paperwork. Spock hates paperwork just as much as Jim does -- she's just better at hiding it.

Her eyebrows dip slightly, and she opens her eyes, blinking at him. "Jim," she says -- softly, he shouldn't be able to hear her -- "I believe -- I think-"

Someone is tapping on his shoulder, a jab that's like a really tiny punch. Jim turns around and comes face-to-face with a Cardassian soldier, sinuous and elegantly ugly.

"I want to dance with your female," he says, gesturing at Spock with a hand that Jim is going to cut off in the near future. "Step aside."

Jim squares his shoulders, blocking Spock with his body. He knows this is a very bad idea, but he also knows that sometimes you just have to roll with the stupid. "If the lady wants to dance with you, I'm sure she'll let you know."

"I do not," Spock replies, clear and even, from behind him, and he loves her so much in that second that he's almost dizzy with it.

"You ask your females for permission?" the Carassian says, honestly laughing now. "How quaint."

"You should probably get Bones and Uhura now," Jim mutters to Spock.

"Uhura does not know how to fight, Captain. And the last time Dr. McCoy was in a physical altercation, Keenser made him say Aunt."

"Uncle," Jim corrects her. "Made him say Uncle."

"Thank you for the edification, but perhaps we should focus on matters at hand," Spock hisses into his ear. He tries not to get distracted by that.

"Look, Bones can make sure I don't bleed out on the floor, and Uhura's got the comm. Go," he orders, and for once in her life she actually does what he tells her.

"Now, gentlemen," he starts, turning back to the head Cardassian, "While I appreciate that there are many cultural differences in our societies, perhaps I can expand your understanding of human and Vulcan social mores. It may one day come in handy. For example--"

The punch is totally not a surprise, but it still hurts like a motherfucker. Cardassians don't have bone tissue the same way humans do, but their skin is as tough as cured leather.

Jim stumbles into someone, who pushes him back toward the Cardassians, who are mostly looking bored. The music grinds to a halt and the floor is clearing like magic; some things are universal, and a crowd's instinct for both self-preservation and entertainment is one of them.

He ducks the next punch and remembers just in time not to try to hit any of _them_ \-- the armor that they wear is no joke, and he'll end up with a broken hand and nothing to show for it. Instead, he grabs onto the leader's neck ridges and throws him over his hip, knocking him to the ground as the other two start to realize they might have picked the wrong puny human to play with.

Jim lets one of them punch him in the stomach -- the guy doesn't know enough about human body structure and doesn't hit high enough, missing Jim's solar plexus -- and rams his elbow into the guy's nose. That has some effect -- the guy staggers backward, clapping his hands over his face as black fluid trickles between his fingers.

The third one glares at Jim, but doesn't try anything. "As I was saying," Jim says, only a little out of breath, "It's considered very insulting to treat any human or Vulcan female as though she was property. And it'll get you your ass handed to you, as you have no doubt noticed."

The lead Cardassian struggles to his feet; Jim watches him, careful to keep distance between them, but all three of them storm out of the club amidst a chorus of cheering and clapping. Jim is instantly surrounded by people, all telling him in various languages that he fought well, that he was brave, that he was the man or whatever. He finds himself half-carried to the bar and given every drink in the house, on the house.

A few moments later Spock, Uhura, and Bones find him; Uhura looking worried, Bones looking irritated, and Spock looking like Spock. Jim hands them all various drinks.

"So," Bones sighs, "Do you feel better now, Jim?"

Jim knocks back three drinks before he feels the adrenaline fading out of his system. It's been a long time since he's been that stupid kid in the barfight, and he's learned how not to lose since then, but there's something nastily familiar about the ache in his cheek and the burn in his gut. "I think we can safely say yes," he answers. "Aside from, you know, the dislocated jaw."

Uhura drifts off after two drinks and a scowl, and Bones follows, after four drinks, a rough examination ("Ow, Jesus, Bones, where did you learn your bedside manner, a Klingon prison planet?") and a stern admonishment not to run into anyone else's fist.

It leaves him alone with Spock, who has had seven drinks and has not been remotely affected by any of them. "Are you in pain?" she asks, frowning up at him, her arms wrapped around Uhura's cloak. She's staring at his jaw.

"Nothing an ice pack and some more of those blue drinks won't cure," he says cheerfully.

Spock nods and leans over the bar. "Excuse me?" she calls, and it's probably her cleavage that gets her such fast service, but when she sits back down on the stool she's holding a (relatively) clean bar rag with a handful of ice cubes.

She reaches up as though she's going to put the ice cubes directly on his face, and he stops her, cupping his hands around hers."Hold on, you have to fold the cloth over, like--" he demonstrates, fashioning a makeshift icepack like the one his mother used to put on his face after school, then brings her hand up to his cheek and presses the cold cloth against it.

Under his cheek, the icepack is freezing, but under his hand, her fingers are still warm.

"That was a remarkably stupid course of action, Captain," she says. "I am puzzled as to why you did it."

He grins, and winces, and shrugs. "Seemed like a good idea at the time."

She makes a noise that, if she were human, he'd call exasperated, but since she's not, he can't. "I was referring to your decision to fight them by yourself, rather than allowing me to assist you. As you are aware, I am both stronger and more adept at hand-to-hand combat than you are."

"Yes, and even if I wasn't aware, you tell me and show me at every opportunity." He moves her hand slightly, settling the cold along the line of his jaw.

"Precisely," Spock says quietly. She's still staring at his jaw--

No, Jim realizes, and the buzz of adrenaline is back. She's staring at his _mouth_.

He licks his lips, a nervous reflex, and he can see her react. He's spent almost a year trying to parse her body language, and a year ago he wouldn't have noticed the slight inhale, the way her nostrils flared and her eyes narrowed. But he's sure as shit noticing right now.

But all she does is say, "You have not answered my question, Jim."

It's really unfair the way she uses his name like a weapon. It's always deliberate; she doles out his first name carefully, the way a parent rations a child's sweets. "What question?" he says.

"I asked why you chose to fight for me," she says, and it sounds formal, solemn.

"Because no one else is allowed to touch you," he says, and shit, that was too honest, and he corrects, "No one should touch you without your permission. I meant. He shouldn't have tried to touch you without your permission, it wasn't--"

Spock stands up, her hand still holding the icepack to his cheek. She looks -- actually, she does look like she's experiencing an emotion, but Jim's only ever seen blind rage and very, very slight amusement on her face before, and he has no idea what this is.

"I believe," she says, "That I understand what you meant."

"Okay," Jim says. She's standing over him -- sitting on the stool, he's a few inches shorter than she is, and she uses it, looming over him while she examines his face. He has no idea what she's looking for, and he can feel cold water sliding down his neck.

After a long minute, she takes the icepack away from his cheek and sets it carefully on the bar. "I believe we should retire for the evening, Jim," she says.

"Uh, Uhura's got the comm if you want to beam up," Jim says, sliding off the barstool.

She takes his hand carefully in hers. "I have a different venue in mind," she says, and tugs him toward the door.

*

Risa is the resort planet of the Federation; there's no shortage of hotels to choose from. Jim tries to remember the name of the place Chekhov had recommended, but Spock takes the choice neatly away from him and tells the driver to go to the Risan Pearl.

"Uh," Jim says, because he can't think of a delicate way to bring up the fact that he can't actually afford to spend more than five minutes at the Pearl. It's the most expensive hotel on Risa; they didn't just put it on an island, they *built* an island especially for it. "Spock, I don't--"

"I secured several floors for the use of the crew," Spock says casually. "I thought they would enjoy the prospect of a few nights' planetside."

Jim stares at her. Even if she'd pawned the Enterprise, it probably would've only given her one of the economy rooms. For a day.

But she simply looks back at him, and adds, "I believe there is an ensuite that is not in use."

"Oh," Jim says.

The Pearl is everything the holo-ads proclaim it to be -- lush and luxurious and beautiful, everything designed to please the wide variety of guests it indulges. But even so, Jim notices that Spock attracts special attention as she walks through the front doors. Of course, she's famous not only from the escapades of the _Enterprise_, but in her own right; although Vulcan is (was) not a caste society, Spock's family is (was) one of the most well-respected and well-regarded. Everyone onboard makes jokes about how Spock's a princess, but it's never more obvious that it's true than at times like this.

"Commander Spock, it is a most glorious privilege," someone says, bowing. "We have arranged everything to your specifications, you may leave everything to us, thank you for honoring us with your custom--"

If Spock is as weirded out by this as Jim is, she doesn't give any indication. "Please direct us to our suite," she says, and Jim feels a little hopeful at that, because suite singular sounds kind of interesting. Although there are probably several bedrooms, there, and Spock's spent enough time with Jim to know what he's like with a hangover. She's probably just being nice, making sure there's someone to take care of him tomorrow morning. Which is illogical, but no more than renting out, holy fuck, three floors of the Pearl just for shits and giggles.

The suite is, as expected, jaw-dropping; an anit-grav pool bubbles away on the balcony and everything looks like the best possible version of itself. He feels dirty and dingy standing here, out of place.

Spock doesn't; she moves around the room as though examining it for security breaches (which she probably is). Jim closes the door after the valets, who are still bowing, and engages the lock. He's still not sure what's about to happen, and he puts his hands flat on the cool surface of the door for a few seconds, breathing deep.


	2. Chapter 2

Spock unwraps Uhura's coat and drapes it carefully over the arm of a chair; the room has been warmed to the ideal specifications for a Vulcan, but she is oddly flushed, heated. She finishes her examination of the room, and turns to find the captain still standing near the door, his hands braced against it.

Then again, perhaps her elevated temperature is in keeping with the circumstances.

She stands and waits, curious to see if he will turn and face her, or if he will remain there, breath barely audible but faster than it is normally, almost as fast as it was when they danced earlier. When he fought the Cardassians on her behalf, and when his hand was cool against hers, his eyes blue and searching.

It is disappointing, in a way, that tonight will be their only time together. When she spoke the traditional words of the bonding, she allowed herself a moment to speculate what it would be like, to have Jim in her bed and in her mind every day. But she knows him, through careful observation and through the friendship that they have built from its first shaky beginnings into something deeper than bedrock. She knows that James T. Kirk is a man who works best unencumbered, with encounters that are fleeting and women who remember him fondly, if they remember him at all. This will be a -- an aberration, like Uhura's coupling with McCoy: something to remember and not something to repeat. It is for the best. That she is already dreading the conclusion of their evening together is no one's burden but her own.

After twenty-three seconds, Kirk turns. "Hey," he says.

Spock frowns; they have not been apart since leaving the club, and yet he is greeting her. Perhaps it is part of the human mating ritual. "Hello," she tries.

Kirk makes a sound like a laugh, but deeper, rougher. He walks into the main chamber, closer to her. "So," he says, "I guess I should - I'm not really..." he seems distracted by her body, as he has been most of the evening. It is disappointing to think that a revealing dress and a painted face were the only things required to get his attention, but she pushes that thought to one side. She does not wish to be distracted by an illogical wish that he had found her desirable in her own right; it is enough that he desires her now. "Spock, maybe..."

She takes a step closer to him; his eyes dilate, and his tongue licks at his lips, a nervous habit that gives him away far more than he realizes. "You have not yet finished a sentence, Captain," she observes.

He makes that curious laugh again, and steps forward again. "I don't know if I can," he says.

She steps close enough to touch him, though she keeps her hands still at her sides. "You just did, Capt--"

"Okay, right now you really can't call me Captain, okay?" he says. He sighs, and the final step brings him flush against her, as though they were about to dance again. He breaks eye contact for a moment, his gaze on her hair. He lifts a hand as though to touch her, but pauses, looking back into her eyes with a question, an asking.

"Jim," she says. She reaches up to unclasp the device in her hair that keeps it bound, and it falls down her shoulders, still half-twisted in the complicated knots that denote her status as Vulcan royalty. Kirk's lips part in a soft gasp and his hand pushes into her hair as though separate from his will; he is watching his hand with a kind of fascination. She closes her eyes as his fingernails scrape across her scalp and his thumb brushes gently against her ear -- it is illogical to react so strongly from a single point of contact, but nothing about her captain has ever been logical.

"Spock," he murmurs again, and this time he is very close, his breath cool against her neck. But when she opens her eyes, he does not look--

He is not looking at her.

"I'm sorry," he says, "I can't." And he lets go, his fingers catching on strands of her hair. She is grateful for the discomfort.

"I see," she says after a moment. "May I ask why not?"

Kirk looks at her now. "It's not a good idea," he says, and then immediately continues, "But of course, when have I ever cared about a good idea, right? It's more like, I don't know, this feels like one night to me. The hotel room, the dress, the..." he waves his hands around as though to encompass all the night's proceedings.

He falls silent after that, and Spock is confused. "Yes?"

"I don't want a night with you," Kirk blurts, then flinches, his eyes screwing shut.

It seems to hit her somewhere in the stomach -- illogical, as words can make no physical impact upon a body, but in this case she can think of no more apt analogy. "I see," she repeats. "I apologize if my manner has been too forward--"

"No - wait, that's not what I meant. I mean, I want _more_ than one. I want all of them."

"All of them," Spock repeats. "If you would clarify, Captain."

"And we're back to Captain, shit," Jim mutters. "I mean, I don't want to have sex with you once and then sneak out of your quarters -- or whatever, out of this hotel room -- and forget the whole thing ever happened. I want more."

The patent absurdity of his declaration prompts her to arch an eyebrow at him. "I had assumed you had enough respect for me to refrain from, as I believe you put it, 'trying a line' on me."

"It's not a line, I swear," Kirk says, stepping forward almost into her personal space again. She backs away; she is unwilling to indulge in this particular human ritual.

"Captain, you have told me repeatedly of times you have used these exact lines on females during your time at the Academy, therefore I cannot help but draw a parallel -- though I confess I am somewhat unclear as to your motivations, since I have already expressed my desire to copulate. Indeed, I have done far more to ensure that outcome than I believe most females with whom you have engaged in sexual relations have had to do."

This has the effect of making Jim irritated. "Really."

"Yes."

"And what is it that most females with whom I've engaged in sexual relations have to do, Commander?" His tone is quiet and low; Spock is reminded of that unpleasant encounter on the bridge of the _Enterprise_, when Jim goaded her into an emotional response after the death of her mother. This time, however, she has learned how to better withstand Kirk's blunt-force approach; indeed, she has even found ways to retaliate.

"According to popular report, a female needs only stand and wait," she tells him. "It is understood that you do most of the work."

Jim looks very angry now; it is satisfying to see. "Oh, according to popular _report_. I didn't realize you'd been collecting data on me, Commander."

"It was a logical--"

"Bullshit," Kirk snarls, moving away. He puts some distance between them and leans forward against the back of a sofa, his hands flexing against the soft material as he stares sightlessly at some point on the ground. Spock remains where she is. After seventy-four seconds, Kirk says, "So you think I'm trying to trick you into thinking I care about you, and then I'll cheat on you or laugh at you or something? You really think I'd do that."

"I do not know what to think, Captain," Spock confesses. "I have only your past actions to analyze, and those actions indicate that you are not to be trusted."

Jim sighs.

"You are asking," Spock points out, "For me to believe that after a very sexually active youth and after earning, by your own accounts, a reputation for promiscuity, that you have somehow come to a decision that you would want to enter into a monogamous relationship with me, despite the fact that you have never indicated sexual interest before this evening. That is a great deal to take on faith, Jim."

Kirk's eyebrows furrow together as she speaks, though he seems to smile slightly at her use of his first name. "So you'd rather have one night with the Captain than -- whatever, a monogamous relationship."

Spock considers this. "It is not that I would prefer it, but rather that I can understand the delineations of one night. I suppose I believed that this shore leave could be a -- vacation, of sorts, from our respective duties. I have been informed that is traditional for crew members to 'get it out of their system' during--"

"Oh, God," Kirk interrupts, burying his face in his hands, "Please stop talking."

Spock falls silent. After taking several deep breaths, Kirk speaks again.

"I can't, Spock. I'm -- sorry you thought that I was -- huh, basically you think I'm a slut, don't you?" He does not sound angry, but Spock feels a flash of guilt all the same.

"The term 'slut' is not one that I would employ, as it implies a moral judgment on the sexual behavior of another. I do not find your behavior objectionable in any moral sense; I simply cannot reconcile it with your stated intentions toward me at this time."

"Okay," Jim says. He straightens up and gives her a stiff smile. "I'm gonna go back to the ship -- thanks for a--" he breaks off, and Spock realizes that he cannot, in truth, thank her for a pleasant evening. "Thanks," he concludes vaguely.

"Yes," Spock replies.

*

Spock waits until the following afternoon to return Uhura's things to her; she finds Uhura in her quarters, hair loose and face freshly scrubbed, as though she has woken recently.

"Have I disturbed you?" Spock asks.

Uhura grins. "Trust me, if you had been I probably wouldn't have opened the door. Meaning you didn't," she adds, gesturing for Spock to come inside.

Spock lays the dress and coat over a nearby chair. "I have cleaned them and assured myself that there was no damage done, but perhaps you would like to check yourself," she says.

"They look fine," Uhura dismisses, curling up on her bed, "But -- are you sure you want to give them back? They looked a lot better on you than they ever did on me."

"They are not garments which I find comfortable or desirable to wear on a regular basis," Spock tells her, with what she is aware may not be the appropriate amount of tact. "They have served their purpose."

"Speaking of which," Uhura says, "How did it go? Last I saw you were dragging the captain out the door and he was looking like a stunned monkey. Did you..." she trails off suggestively.

The meaning of the rest of the sentence is clear, and Spock is in no mood to draw out the conversation. "We did not."

Uhura looks surprised. "Really? Why not? I mean, not that I'm -- screw it, I want to know. Why didn't you?"

"There is a certain incompatibility between us that I do not believe is surmountable," Spock explains.

"You mean -- physically?" Uhura asks skeptically. "Because I took xenobiology, plus I remember we had that really terrible conversation back at the Academy when you were my TA, so I know you have all the same--"

"I do not mean physically," Spock says. She turns for the door. "I should report to the bridge."

"Spock, you're off the clock, and you're being pretty coy about all of this," Uhura chides. She pats the bedspread beside her. "Come on. Spill."

"I have nothing liquid--"

"What _happened_?" Uhura asks, in that sharp yet kind way that reminds Spock so much of her mother.

Spock does not sigh, but it is a near thing. She sits down next to Uhura. "The captain appeared to forget that I am considerably more intelligent than the women that he typically beds, and attempted to convince me of his fidelity, should I wish to commence a long-term romantic relationship with him. I informed him that I was well aware of his inability to be anything but indiscriminate in his affections, and would not wish to become one of a number of females to whom he has made such promises in the past."

"So basically you called him a slut," Uhura says.

"I do not understand the human preoccupation with that word," Spock mutters.

"It's one of our less attractive habits," Uhura tells her.

"If he had simply -- been amenable to a single evening of pleasure, I am certain that I would have been successful in my goal and would have, as you put it, gotten it out of my system." A thought occurs to her. "Which reminds me -- did you and the doctor--"

"Focus, Spock," Uhura chides. "We can talk about my incredible, amazing, oh-my-God-I-think-I-passed-out evening later."

"The information you just conveyed to me indicates that your time was at least pleasantly occupied," Spock observes, and Uhura laughs.

"Look, Spock, shore leave is -- these things happen a lot, okay? We're a small ship and sometimes people like me and Dr. McCoy need to -- settle things, you know? But maybe it's not the same with you and the captain."

Spock frowns. "I do not understand. You are the one who suggested that I make this attempt."

Uhura sighs deeply and leans back on her elbows, kicking the side of the bed absently. "Okay, full disclosure? I did it because otherwise you were never going to make a move and if you didn't, the captain sure as hell wasn't, and it was starting to depress everyone watching the two of you sigh over each other."

"I am aware of no such respiratory difficulties that either I or the captain have suffered on the other's account," Spock argues.

"You know what I mean, Spock."

"Then I would argue that the metaphor is inaccurate as well. I have noticed no behavior in the captain that would lead to the conclusion that he harbors any significant feelings for me."

"Ugh, I keep forgetting who I'm talking to," Uhura moans. "Spock, I know you don't believe me, but if you ever saw the way he looks at you, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

It is tempting to believe. "If he had any significant emotional attachment to me, why would he continue to sleep with other people? Surely he understands that as a Vulcan, I would require fidelity."

Uhura laughs. "You're really a moron sometimes, Spock. I mean no, you're a genius, but..." she trails off, then says, "Who's the last person he slept with?"

"I do not know -- I have only heard rumors."

"Exactly," Uhura says.

Spock frowns. "Do you mean to say that he is not -- what was the term you once used?"

"Okay, when I called him the Intergalactic Harlot of the Federation, it was mostly a joke. I don't know if he's taken a vow of celibacy or anything since the mission started," Uhura temporizes, "But I know he's serious about you. And that he hasn't slept with anyone in months, at least."

It is a great deal to take in. "How can you be certain of his feelings?" Spock asks after a moment.

"The same way I'm certain about the transmissions I intercept," Uhura replies, shrugging. "The same way I knew that I should be assigned to the _Enterprise_. The same way I know that Leonard and I are going to be more than a one-night stand. Some things you just _know_."

*

Uhura sends her away after they discuss her evening with McCoy; the tradition of sharing with a friend the details of a romantic interlude is a human one, but Spock finds it oddly gratifying nonetheless, not least because McCoy would be horrified if he knew. Uhura presses the dress back into Spock's hands as she leaves. "Seriously," she says, "Keep it. You never know."

The material is soft and supple in Spock's hands; it can ball up into a shape smaller than her fist, but Spock finds herself running it through her hands, enjoying the feeling against her fingertips as she walks through the halls.

Once she is back in her quarters, she places the dress carefully in her closet, hanging it next to the formal robes of the High Council and her Academy uniform. She shuts the closet and makes her way to the console, calling up the security feed from the bridge yesterday, when the captain first invited her down to the planet's surface.

At the time, she remembers, she was preoccupied by dread of seeing the captain make off with someone he would meet on Risa, or worse yet staying with Spock out of some misguided feeling of comradeship; Uhura had later convinced her to seize the moment and make an attempt to catch Jim's attention herself. But she was not paying any attention to Jim himself at the time, instead focusing her gaze on her instruments and her duties.

But now she has the luxury of seeing without being seen, and she watches the expression on Jim's face as he asks her down to the planet's surface; how his face falls, almost comically, when she makes a comment about whoremongering. And the strange, almost horrified expression on his face when she mentions tattoos.

None of them seem to be particularly affectionate expressions, however. Spock skips to a feed of them walking to the transporter room on their way to the surface, McCoy and Uhura leading the way, Jim and Spock behind. Spock ignores her own appearance, which still seems alien to her, and instead examines the captain. This time, the expression on his face is clearly one of strong emotional response; it seems almost reverent. Certainly she has never noticed such an expression on his face before.

That, then, is her answer -- that his feelings for her, such as they were, manifested only after seeing her in alluring garb. Disappointed, she constructs an algorithm based on that facial configuration, programming the database to search past security feeds for similar patterns. She leaves it to run and decides to make a brief appearance on the bridge. She requires distraction.

She opens the door to her quarters and almost collides with the captain. "Whoa," Jim says. "Uh. Sorry."

"Captain," Spock says.

"Hi."

No further communication seems forthcoming. "Excuse me," she says, when Jim does not move out of her way.

"Sure -- I mean, actually," he says, "I was hoping to talk to you."

Spock lifts an eyebrow. "If you wished to speak with me, surely you could have used the ship's communication system."

"Yeah," Jim replies absently. "You got a minute?"

Whatever conversation the captain wishes to initiate will no doubt take longer than a minute, but Spock cannot truthfully claim that her time is otherwise occupied -- they are, after all, on leave. "Certainly," she says.

Once inside her quarters, Jim seems to lose track of what he wants to say. Spock stands at attention and waits for him to begin.

"First of all, uh, did you know about Bones and Uhura?" he asks.

The question seems odd, but she answers. "Yes."

"Oh," Jim says. "It's just -- I saw him doing the walk of shame this morning, which kind of blew my mind a little bit."

"I was aware that Uhura had an intention of 'getting it out of her system' during this shore leave," Spock says.

Jim stares at her. "Wait. Are you saying -- do I have _Uhura_ to thank for that whole mess last night?"

"I would hardly qualify it as a 'mess,' Captain, but rather--"

"Okay, no, hold up," Jim says, waving his hands around. "You need to just sit down for a second, and maybe I can do this."

"Very well," she says, and sits down on the edge of her bed.

"And don't say anything," Jim adds, his hands lifted as though to prevent her escape, should she make any attempt to flee. "Just let me get through this, okay?"

Speaking would be against his wishes, so Spock simply waits.

It appears to be the correct course of action, because Jim nods and straightens, tugging at the hem of his shirt. "I didn't come here to talk about Bones and Uhura, even though apparently I have to put somebody on latrine duty after this. I wanted to ask you -- tell you -- I wanted to find out what it would take. I mean, for us."

Spock remains silent, and Jim sighs.

"You can talk now."

"I desire further information."

"I'm asking what you need from me. To make this, you know, whatever. Work."

"By 'this,' I assume you are referring to a romantic relationship between us?"

"Right," Jim answers. It appears almost painful for him to do so.

"Even though I made it clear last night that I believed your attentions to be motivated largely by my physical appearance at that time?"

Jim's hands clench, and he takes a deep, calming breath. "Right."

"And even though I now have physical evidence to support this theory?"

"Right -- wait. What?"

Spock stands and goes over to her console. "Uhura mentioned that you regard me in a certain way, a way that apparently signifies emotional attachment in humans. However, I found only one instance of this particular expression, and that was while you were observing me in sexually appealing clothing."

Jim joins her, frowning. "Wait, you've been looking through security feeds in order to see how I _look_ at you?" he asks.

"That would be an illogical waste of time," Spock explains patiently. "I found this example and created an algorithm, then programmed the computer to run a search to find any further instances where you regarded me with an expression within the specified parameters--" she pauses, then, distracted by the information on the screen.

In the thirteen months that they have been aboard, the computer calculates that Jim has configured his facial features in a manner similar or identical to the baseline a total of two thousand one hundred fifty-seven times. Spock has been the recipient of that expression at a rate ninety-six point four three percent.

The other seventy-seven times that Jim has worn that expression have been when in Engineering, looking at the warp core of the _Enterprise_. Which is, she supposes, more than slightly troubling, though perhaps not pertinent to the subject at hand.

She almost forgets that Jim is behind her, examining the same data that she is and capable of synthesis almost as quickly. But when he laughs quietly, his mouth close to her ear and his shoulder touching hers, she remembers.

"Looks like the only affair I might be having is with my ship," Jim murmurs.

Spock turns to regard him. The expression on his face is well within the specified parameters.


End file.
